-^^0^ f' 



^*^°^ 






.^^ 



a"^ 









».»^*W*^ '^ V y*' a/ 1' , 













^v^O^ 





'^o^ : 




"^bv^ 



^'% '", 



■/ %.'^-'\^' V^^'y V*^^'*/ •-. 




<P\ * o N 




^. 

















r _,.,.. V-,^4V_._^^<,_^ -■ ^^^v _^^_ 



v^o^ 
























'^'^ . t ' - 




s> ..^" 






^oV" 



?' JP -7-. 




















^ ^^y .^*/7///^, -r. 






v«> 



V . 













r. ^^ A^ /^Va^ ^<^. cV^ *^. 




«> N » ^-^l^ 



K^^^ 




•.eS^X^v^'-. O 







v^^ 



GEOGRAPHICS 



Steven Lewis 
Martin J Rosenblum 



GEOGRAPHICS follows BRITE SHADE and BURNING OAK in a 

series featuring the interfacing work of two poets within each book. \ lOO 2L 

The photographs of the poets are by Shash Broxon & Maureen Rosen - 
blum. 



Copyright ® For the Authors 
All Rights Reserved 



Lionhead Publishing/ROAR Recording 
Shorewood Wisconsin 



ISBN 0-89018-016-4 — Trade Edition 
ISBN 0-89018-015-6 — Limited Edition 



Printed and bound by Morgan Press 
Milwaukee, Wisconsin 



' 'MAr 2 6 1989 



COAST 
by 

Steven Lewis 







Making Love to a Pregnant Woman 

The squall moves across 
from Currituck Sound 
in the west 

over this island; the towels 
on the porch 
rippling off the railing. 

blow to the sand 
below; warm rain drives 
against the closed window; 

the woman, 

alone in the cottage, shudders 

and places her hand 

on her belly. 



To the Young Questioner Who Asks 
When We Are Due 



I am not pregnant. 
Patti is full and wide, round 
as the warm shadows 
off the dunes in the late 
afternoon. I am 

nearly forty, not one 

to shy 

away from the sun 

under her imposing belly. 

I 

strut across the hot barrier sands, 
the bulging swimsuit at my side 
evidence of the eternal 
power of my sperm 
as I 

dive through the surf, 

glide across the shoals, 

a whale of a man rolling toward the endless 

Gulf Stream: savoring what is sweet, 

grateful for what is sacred, 

knowing what is mine. 



No Swimming 



Northerlies 
make the waves 
swell, swift current 
south from the pier toward 

a naked 
little boy running 
from his parents' blanket, little 
penis wiggling, his mother's 
finger waving a frantic warning 
about the surf; 

his father's eye, 

like the afternoon light, 

dances on her thigh. 



American Family 



Blue pool: sharp smiles, squeals 
of laughter. Grandma peels 

down the yellow slide 
into her heavy daughter 
to make it three generations 
(and a girlfriend and her mother) 
splashing in the hotel sun. 

' Hard to Believe You're in Heaven 
on someone's portable radio: 

If looks could kill, 
the pool would be red. 



Morning Portrait 



Danny 
alone on the long deck, squinting 
at a big gull 
cawing down at him 
from the peak of the roof. 

He stands so quietly; 

so unusual for one 

whose hands move like birds' 

eyes; smudged 

glasses slipping 

from his wrinkled nose. 

At the lifting of wings, he 

disappears. 



Gael et Claude: 
Something Akin to Envy 



Ambling out toward the dunes, waist 
high in waving sea oats, they are 
barefoot, towels hung over bare shoulders, 
smooth hands gesturing in the air. 

One is tall and skinny, the other just 
filling out this year. It could be 
a 1959 photograph of me 
and Richard G. walking down 
toward the lake in Great Barrington 

or a film, Cael et Claude, 
about the summer of two 
adolescents discovering whatever 
French schoolboys learn 
on deserted beaches. 

They walk as if 

the beach would always be there, dropping 

out of sight, first the shoulders, 

then the wave 

of one's hair. 



Two Things 



I can see 

any camel hunkering 
down and slipping 
through the eye of a needle. 

Hindus with glazed eyes 

walking over burning embers, tumors 

disappearing, talking bushes, seas 

parting, paralytics standing 

and screaming, ' Hallelujah! ' : 

I can see it all. 

But watching you 

walk barefoot up the stairs, your heel 
just brushing the hem of your skirt, 
I do not see 

how it is 

that you love me, 

and why life 

has so much pain. 



Yearning 



The bed is made; the sunHght 
filters in the south windows 
onto the blue and white quilt. 

On the light green rug 
is the bra she dropped 
last night before bed. 



Aunt Jean's Price 



She (who has 
lived long, modest rent- 
controlled, high- 
ceilinged Bklyn apt. 

serving the seated family, 

washing their dishes, sweeping 

their crumbs and sending them home, safe 

and superior, ' a saint, ' 
we say on the L.I.E., 
stuffed with guilt and relief 

at her refusal 

of a hand 

in her grave illness) 

pays a dear price 
for not sitting 
down to dinner. 



What You Must Know to be a Teacher: 

(Variation on a theme by Gary Snyder) 



to the human heart; the ampHfled sound 
of blood rushing across the placenta; 
the pain of menstruation behind 
closed eyes; first aid 
for a spurting artery; the bloodless 
face of betrayal. 



The way 



we use when everjrthing we value 
has been taken away; the noise of 
freedom; the shattering 
silence of an accusing finger; 
the endless boring hours of hearing 
others talk; the pain of healing. 



The voice 



of sex; the rage of injustice; the goodness 
in Grendl; the evil in Mother Theresa; 
Solomon's ignorance; the bravery of 
Chicken Little; the heart 
of darkness. 



The urgency 



back. 



The way 



For My Father at 77 



' I am the father ' 
-James Hazard 



Mornings 

in the clouded mirror, 
the 19 year old peers across 
with that shy, ironic smile. 
He knows. He 

who runs along Springtown Road 
these mornings, confused 
about the lack of stamina 
in his bones. He who 

demands my attention 
when he hears a child's request 
for a hand, saying, 
' It cannot be you. ' 

I say, 

* I am the father, ' 
but he only smiles — 
shyly, ironically — He 

knows the father; 

like a teenager, he knows 

ever3rthing. 

Always. 



A Rose in the Mouth of a Crow 



Just as the father rages on 
against the weakness of the son 
that he cannot help 
but love, 

and the son goes limp 
in deHance 

of the strong armed father 
he so adores, 

we do nothing 

in our dark lives 

but yearn for the milky taste 

of unconditional love 

and spit it out 

contemptibly at our own feet 
expecting nectar, not the ordinary 
taste of flesh. 



For Every Season 



When the ash fell 

on the wood pile, wind rushing 

stream through its roots, 

we laughed, 

warmed at the seeming intention 

of it all: comfortable proof 

that everything has a reason, 

a phoenix that rises in God's burning light 

and delivers us from the evil 

that would lurk safely in dark recesses, 

a copperhead writhing 

under a fallen log 

or beneath a cold rock; 

not in the rock 

smashing its orange head, or the rifle 

blowing its brains 

across the green mowed lawn; 

not in the shiver when we read, 
' Gang Kills Mother of Six, 
Shoves a Pipe Up Her Rectum. ' 



A Rose in the Mouth of a Crow 



Just as the father rages on 
against the weakness of the son 
that he cannot help 
but love, 

and the son goes limp 
in defiance 

of the strong armed father 
he so adores, 

we do nothing 

in our dark lives 

but yearn for the milky taste 

of unconditional love 

and spit it out 

contemptibly at our own feet 
expecting nectar, not the ordinary 
taste of flesh. 



For Every Season 



When the ash fell 

on the wood pile, wind rushing 

stream through its roots, 

we laughed, 

warmed at the seeming intention 

of it all: comfortable proof 

that everything has a reason, 

a phoenix that rises in God's burning light 

and delivers us from the evil 

that would lurk safely in dark recesses, 

a copperhead writhing 

under a fallen log 

or beneath a cold rock; 

not in the rock 

smashing its orange head, or the rifle 

blowing its brains 

across the green mowed lawn; 

not in the shiver when we read, 
' Gang Kills Mother of Six, 
Shoves a Pipe Up Her Rectum. ' 



Driving My Sister's Porsche 



Zero to sixty by Johnson's farm, red 
aerodynamic flash along a snowy 
Shawangunk sunset, is 

after all, not a car, 

a man with a sock in his pants, 

a woman with tissue in her silk bra: 

slowing for a light, it is 

a soft space 

to lay a weary head. 



The Dreams of Fathers 



The old coots, who 
perch around the green counter 
at Ed's, staring through foggy 
windows onto Main Street, 

see only vanity down 

on the icey sidewalk, a boy 

like most boys, no hat, open coat, 

running late to school. He is 

disrespectful, lazy, 
irreverent; he is a weakling, 
a tyrant, a spiteful little liar 
who knows only contempt 

for the innocent dreams 

of their dead fathers who also looked 

down and saw only vanity 

and utter vexation — 

against the spirit of their own 
good fathers 

who laid down long coats 
over their muddied pasts 

as one would drape a flag 
over the coffin 
of one more son 
who has killed in vain 

to serve the shameless 
dreams of fathers: boys 
like most boys, 
running late. 



General Delivery, Rodanthe 



Easy clouds - 
nothing to do; the way 
to the beach 

is a wavering path 
made by our seemingly endless trips 
over the dunes 

to find the same immense ocean, 
the same expanse of sky, 
the usual swell of emotion. 

There's nothing new; it's so 
old. The wind 
reminds you to lick the salt 
from your lips. 



It's Not Fair 



The drifts 
of snow along Franklin Avenue 
remind me that even 
in Currier and Ives 
towns like this 

the cold wind washes through 
everyone, regardless of where 
we live - or shop - 
or dine - or who 
we sleep with - or how many 
people wave as we run 
from the Grand Union to 
Larry's Deli. The ruddy cheeks 

on the boy on the cover 

of an old Saturday Evening Post 

are red 

because he is cold; 

not because he is wholesome, 

or happy, 

or because Jesus Christ is his 

personal savior. He is alive; 

not rewarded; 

not punished; 

in time he may forgive 

the biting wind, the blinding 

snow that darkens towns like this one. 

There is no other way home. 



Chesapeake Afternoon 



Oyster shells across this shoreline 
make children walk like stilts 
on barrier island beaches: 

she lies on the shallow waters 
of this warm bay, slender fingers 
moving with the grace 

of the tall grasses waving 

across the wetland marshes, brown hair 

rippling toward the white shells, 

a tiny swell rolling gently 
over the children's soft feet 
moving her way. 



What Is Left 



for Kristin Stroup, 

who left a note on my door 



My friend Kees 
gave me this: 

* That hits a pig Hke pliers ' - 

a Dutch saying for 

* meaningless. ' Its non- 
sense dropped in my expanding memory 

like a vision given to me (in 1950) 
from behind, my older brother, 
a bat over his shoulder, 
walking to the park. In leaving 

I would like to choose 

what I leave, wanting to aim 

only at what is memorable, cleaning; knowing 

what was left - is left - 

has been left without intention: 

the clink of the pliers 

hitting the wet 

mushy ground. 



Gravity: Freshman Comp. Exam 



Snowy morning. Wet 

flakes falling in the deep corridor 

between buildings: their eyes 

are blackbirds, ice 
on the red tips of wings 
darting frantically from eaves 
across long windows. They see 

this storm as life 

and death: as a way to keep 

from tumbling helplessly 

to the swirling concrete below. 

They do not see behind their eyes, 
heavenly bodies soaring over snowy clouds: 
moving light, beyond words, 
snow melting on their tongues. 



Entheos 



The rain that blows big 
logs down small streams 
and a large ash 
across a cord of firewood, 

comes only when it does, 
not when we dance 
or fornicate 
or shiver in the darkness; 

or because an African drought 
causes grown people to beg 
and weep, to die 
for a morsel of infested rice. 

There is little sense in this world: 
water raging over the banks, 
handfuls of rice 
scattered on happy couples, 
smoke escaping the flue — 

Making sense after a storm 
is cowardly, hands shading 
your eyes against 
the simplest source of light. 



The Worn Path Is Yours 

for Bay 



What to tell you, warm breath, 

round face, vacant eyes, 

tiny tongue sucking on my finger? 

That if you are good — 
That if you believe — 
That if you try hard enough — 
That if you persevere — 
That if you have faith — 
There is nothing to fear? 

What to tell you 

to satisfy my hunger? 

Beware the teacher: 
make a sabbath — 
and keep it. 



Passover 



Good Friday. Back 
on Hatteras, the wind; 

the wind. Jesus 

would have known all this; 

the bleaching sun; the smell 
of cedar; the wind 

passing over everything; 
everything. 



Screened Porch 



I would feel guilty for sitting 

here on the screened porch, legs 

up on the table, 

crickets and tree frogs in the pines, 

a toy in the uncut grass, vines 

creeping up the locust (a half mile back 

the sun set behind the Shawangunk ridge), 

if this was the only life 
there is. 

Nothing makes sense 
but that. 



SEASONED INLAND 
by 

Martin J Rosenblum 




FaU's Order 



our dog wanders 
in a circle 
on the kitchen 
floor before 
settling down . 
this does not 
do much but cause 
her dismay as she 

bumps into our 
daughter on the 
floor as well staking 
out territory for toys . 

sarah moves over the surface 
with a stuffed reindeer which 
might be a moose heading for 
the doUhouse where assorted 
rubber people watch the dog 
finally flop down on a bracelet 
& two rings . sarah pats marta 

on the head as if 
to congratulate 
for making it a 
safe place in this wild 
space & then kicks 
her nose playing with a truck . 
the leaves 

begin to fall. 

there is colder 

air along floorboards 

& earlier against the 

sharp sky geese flew 

honking 

stirrings belonging 

to divided years 
Bring my wife to 



can produce from 
the garden that suffered 
its first frost last nite 
& my ability to listen to a 
new recording of wild jazz is 
altered by visions of beasts 
nearing a family dwelling 
& i am wandering at the 
edges of our housed 
autumn in dismay 



Emptying Autumn 



there is colder 

air along floorboards 

earlier against 
the sharp sky geese 
flew & their honking 
the stirrings of our dog dull 

in the afternoon 
lite washed out 

cleaning rooms 

stuck motionless 
as with less vegetation truck wheels 
echo against hardwood . 



Almost Winter 



Sarah's trike hangs 

on the garage wall 
frost is laid 

on the shingles 

i walk to the alley 

looking for racoons 

from downer's woods 

who come to turn over 
garbage carts 
moving slowly 
i see little racoons 
making sure i'm safe. 

all i hear 

is the rear 
wheels spinning 

in the nite wind 
thru the structure 

where i stand 

also hearing 
egg shells crack 

further as 
i satisfy myself 

with one more look : there are 

sounds out 
here that arouse 
ancestors i meet 
only when i sleep 
& my voice is breath 
blowing toward 
the spinning wheels 
as nite smoke . 



That You Were Back Living 



my grandmother/should be 

living in 

her home, grandfather 

he 

/should be 

living in it too 

but grandma he's 
at the conway motor inn.she's dead a year 
& when maureen took the curtains off the 
window in our kitchen.my hands were 
full of plaster,the lite that 
broke thru 
was empty. 

yisborach v'yistabach v'yispoar 
v'yisromam v'yisnasay v'yishador) 

i never did love 
you rite until 
maureen did,grandma 
.but i can't 
visit that motel 
i know he's there 
from relatives you also 
wanted me to love and/when: 

igot 
the phone call that you 

'd died i was 
cutting down 
a door to fit our 
back door frame,my 
saw slipped & gouged 
,the wind last winter 
came in but it's all rite 
now i've taken the door off 
to cut again to fit a frame 
we'll build for the back 
hallway there's an 
aluminum door in 
the place for 
this winter . when 



i came to get 
you 

grandma (i was 
around sixteen)! 
helped you into 
my corvair, you dropped 
the blueberry pie & it 
fell top down; you cried 
then i did 
not after that funeral of yours(the rabbi you called a mumzer 
)you 
came all the way 

from poland 
your husband 
from russia 
you met in a tailor shop.chicago; grandpa's tailor shop 

in appleton (where you lived together for around 
seventy years is being leveled for a parking lot 

because next door is the new store 
i've heard about you 

gave it to your other grandson 
& more than that 
it's next door 
to the appleton police 
station which i sat in 
when i was arrested in 
a stolen car going 
to a junior high dance 
the police station wasn't 
there then it was 
within walking distance 
from my father's store he 
had to come while i confessed 
my mother had to let 
me in that nite 
my keys lost 
in an escape 
that failed 

while i 
put the window frame 
back together after 
tying the weights in place 

i had this crazy idea 
grandma 

that you were back 
living 

in your stucco house 



on mary street & i just want 

to tell you 
grandma 

that you don't live 
there anymore,lite 
v'yisaleh v'yishallol sh'may 
d'kudsho b'rich hu) in thru the window 

in the kitchen 
,some plaster 
on the curtains 
a spot i'm not going 
to remove : i'd like to keep it 
there even 
tho i've got 
shelves that sag,screws broken 
off in the wall, 
nails bent & pounded in 
,lite rite thru the glass & i confess, 
i'd like to keep it 
:this mess to serve 
me that you 
aren't there anymore 

my grandmother/should 
there be 
perfection the lite will burn 
it thru the spot 
where i stand 
speaking in 
your absence . 



When In 



december as rain 
doesn't stick 

the way snow 

would & over 

late tea we finally 
understand those 
moments 

a lyrical impulse 
just like these 

:trees rubbed color 

-less & the grass 

smoothing wet 
:sky drained opaque 

& the leaves packed 

& wet . 

thunder flattens our 
response as certain 
as evening 
revival 

tho our decisions 
are elemental the 

objects concommitant 

retrieve that 
conclusiveness 
reached around them 
for. 

later we have to 
start over 
but the objects, 

they retain . 



Inquiry Zones 



along a side 

-walk where last 

nite's rain gathers 

into units upon a plastic 

bag draped over a patch of grass 

stepped upon(as i)run thru this part 

near the lake: 
comes rolling over into 

ears that sting 

before dawn's near 
warmth in december 

wings beating even 
tempered from 
angels none of which 
there/are . 



First Snow (with piano 



& possibly guitar 

& then too there 

were roses on 

a ceiling 

but this 

calls 

for more: following blown 



section while spinning into the yard 
this time animal prints next to mine 

& while approaching a backdoor lite! 



tracks thru an 
inter- 



particles like snow 
sticking to a beard 



rubbed off on the pillow next to my 

daughter sleeping 

afraid of slapping aluminum window 

frames unable to affix upon an uneven surface 



StiU Life 



in January 
where there is 

usually snow 
there is 
rotten grass & the mud 
where there is 

usually snow 
January mud 

/ 

thru speakers on a table 
anthony braxton honking 

pictures on the wall 
that rattle of pound 

wcw & Charles olson sitting 
on some steps coat slung 

over shoulders & berryman 
there out of season too 

for syntax even still 
while henry(instead he stuck 

)'s bones dream : 

these texts 

made from mud 

& sound & photos 

as well recuperate 

the fever snow would 

cool would it have the drift. 



contents/Zrefraining 

as 
falling January syntax 
assembled on a still life 

empty of cover 
the bare objects being 
a revelation/is all.there is 

where usually 
there is 
a protective blanket 

there is 
a storm,absent & raging 
without residue . 



A Storm 



trees bend 

as winds 

rush thru 

them & as 

we turn 

into it 

the wind 

too & the tree 
/it all enters 
us & leaves us 

even in 

ways we receive from the opening 
created by the force that bends. 

by day the bushes lean 
from the weight 
& the wire 
fence beneath is bent & will 
stay that way . 

we gather 
in the kitchen 
at a round oak table 
lite refracted thru a stained glass 
empty & etched but we can see 

what was contained 

— such as the blown snow 

fallen all around 
us to contain 
our motion 



contentsZ/refraining 

as 
falling January syntax 
assembled on a still life 

empty of cover 
the bare objects being 
a revelation/is all.there is 

where usually 
there is 
a protective blanket 

there is 
a storm,absent & raging 
without residue . 



A Storm 



trees bend 

as winds 

rush thru 

them & as 

we turn 

into it 

the wind 

too & the tree 
/it all enters 
us & leaves us 

even in 

ways we receive from the opening 
created by the force that bends. 

by day the bushes lean 
from the weight 
& the wire 
fence beneath is bent & will 
stay that way . 

we gather 
in the kitchen 
at a round oak table 
lite refracted thru a stained glass 
empty & etched but we can see 

what was contained 

— such as the blown snow 

fallen all around 
us to contain 
our motion 



Territorial 



raking & picking up 
all morning 
dog droppings where 
bulbs are next 



at all! 



in the evening 

of the same day a storm 

absent & raging then 
without 

residue ; 

papers & cans & labels 
from the garbage blown 

to construct lumps also soon 

covered at the edges 

of the yard once it snowed — 

& while 

marked, these limits define 

what otherwise has 

no boundary , 



pipe smoke,into lite frames that angle as my hands 

settle into pockets for warmth ,& another demarcation 

is altering 



steams into reflected afternoon 

daylite in thru a crack 
between the blinds i can watch 
the tractor tire in the backyard 
filled with sand & now snow serve 
as a rim for a squirrel shaking 
in a search pattern over the 
table top from the room 



when the tarnished 
kettle on the stove 



where a fine layer of dust 

settles & is scratched 

when my cup moves marking 

the center 

of this area 
from which i 

can witness/a portrayal 
by lite also indicating 

advancing shadows ( 
further definition)of arranged movement 

during the earth's circling 
over lumps hidden 
where stuck 
in this february Wisconsin museum exhibit 

a little bird enters the tire's inner circle 
to peck at something i cannot quite 

make out 



Later The Next Day Once 
There Was A Storm 



in Stockholm during 
the nite when there 
is no visible 
darkness & when 
i was coming up 
from the train 
a woman pushing 
a baby carriage 
passed as wheels 
rattled along 
the stones & an 
opening in my heart 
then closing so fast 
i forgot until twenty 
years later sitting 
in an office while 
people close doors 
& talk loosely now 
that it's over & on 
the way home i too 
might gather things 
& go but then will 
have left with the 
sun still hot & breathing 
close in humid 
regularity knowing 
it will be dark by the time 
it gets 
cooler : 
this morning trees were 
scattered across the path 
where i usually burn out what 
i find left from nites that hold 
lite still seeping in from earlier 
inertia bumping 
along when i come up in 
-to pressing illusions 
that have become much more 
than possibilities even 
but nothing like this 
carriage riding a 
stone street on a Swedish holiday. 



Snowing 



sleep uncovered 
by windows letting 
lite in from snow 
skies backlit 

it is like looking 

thru an eggshell cracked 

in January as 
our doors can 
be opened against 
the mounds only 

to let out a dog 
at dawn & the alley 
is even with the top 
of our back fence : 

walking thru the kitchen 
i hear my daughter running 
down the stairs sHding 
in pajama feet & we are 
soon dancing to the whining 

of cars stuck in drifts 
shovels for percussion 

as we eat our morning eggs 
dreams in teaspoons 
at the saucers edge 



AUofIt 

sleep uncovered 

by windows letting lite 

in from snow skies backlit 

it is like looking 
thru an eggshell 

cracked & the snow 
having started out 

to the gate latch broken so released 

so when i climbed 

over into the alley 

approaching the back 
of our house later 

our house the kitchen lites 

showing my little girl (about to eat supper 
to me 

it suddenly 
originated there 

in the lite 

& i walked rite into it all . 



Locating The Emotions 



pipe smoke into lite 

frames that angle as my hands 

settle into pockets 

for warmth & another 
demarcation is envisioned when 
the copper kettle on the stove tarnished 

steams into reflected 
afternoon daylite 
in thru a crack 

between the blinds adds a portion 
of the graph . 



Service 



at sundown 
there is the street 

lites from it 
refract black 
snow & gutters 
have squashed cans in them: 

the street 
there is 
at sundown 

the lites( 

hollow shadows 

the walls reflect) 

passing headlites over it & 
passing above it burning my 

chants used 

to 

as 

vehicles thru 

their own beams 
illuminate 

their following 
/the sabbath 

while outside 
tossing the cans 
on the pavement i 
was not with my friends 

/candles lit 

then dissolved 
by their own fire 

but observed as were 
my vows that visible 

that at their inception 
& into what they became : 

forms to indicate = they had been . 



Weekend Exception 



this is a midwestern 
late afternoon drizzle 
with the quality of lite 
burning thru the window above 
a wooded area confined by the 
fence that runs the length 
of edgewood where i walk 
twice every day except 
on weekends . 



intrusive imagination 



& feel privileged to do so 



an 



i enter 
this scene 
jamming it 
with my 



i have lived in 
Wisconsin all 
my life 



instant too soon — i should/have waited 



for now the 
sun sets 
& tree 
shadows 
scrape 
along 
the aluminum 
siding where dents 
get tangled with 
discoloration from 
varying degrees of 
splattered & substantive 
materials now coated by shadows moving 
along the entire situation: 
& my entrance suddenly open 



& exposing the racoon who 
donning valentine's wrappings 
by raising his head in the waste 
container as i must have been heard 
stares at me when the shadows cross 
the floor where i stand smoking 
burley in a calabash unwrapped 
i exhale having 
been burned by a flash of lite, 
shadows scratching over my body 

,my landscape vision intruding 
as the oak 
chair i sit 

down on casts its image right under me 



Spring Into 



there was this 
situation once 

or i had it too 



after going thru 

wheel kicks & spun 

arms to open up an assault 

then coming 
upon the weak 
spot identified 

within power surges in eagle wings 

the head a wolf & in 

the talons a rose 



seeing this 



ing fist 
drives & 
releases 



creature fly or 
howl when empty 
hand as clench- 



an uneven 
lapse beneath 
a surface held 
not shown : you 
saw a snap of what 
i get cleared in organ 
-ized breathing inside 
circular arm blocking 
that looks as tho a 
dance but is meant 
to reduce oncoming 
motion to dust . 



Summer 

Senses Sacrificed 



will i be old 
looking wise 
& framed on 

some student's wall 

probably not 

words have lost 
their measure 
& the beat 

comes thru air 
waves upon 
senses 

as heat rising 
above the land 
at the horizon 

during summer 
when living 
is easily 

melted on the 
pavement & 
our cat 

sprawls on the 
basement stoop 

& in the tall grass 
looking at asparagus 
on its second year up 

in a garden held in 
by protective flowers 
i feel language iced to 



preserve an awkward exposure 
& its rhythm rising thru 
archimedes' screw 

to be parched upon a field 
made from pulped growths 
sacrificed 

to my summer addiction . 



Above 



summer heat clouds 

hung in window fans 
& flies buzzing between 
screen & glass: when my 
hands are hot i touch you 

we steam/our bedroom fringes 

where we walk naked letting 
each other go 

:the morning edges 

us a peirt i 
move downstairs 

on a hot rug 
in a burned out bamboo chair 
cracking curtain 

as lite sleeps 
from sun or worn cloth 
thru city dust left by 
streetsweeper at midnite 
flashing dream turret above 
electric brushes rolling 
cans & bottles into parked cars 
as tho skulls torn from summer bodies 



Blueprint To Scale 



i came up after the hall 
lite went back on so she 
could sleep she said & 
entered our own room & 

was a witness to the lady 
on the corner turning on 
her overhead bulb that 
got spliced by blinds 
into lite edges 
contured by 
your hips 
in the 
dark 
they 
went 

onto the carpet arranged 
by a dog breathing 
in hot weather 
& i patted her 
onto me they 
came & when 
i got to 
where 

they rose & fell 
or your long legs 
did by morning another 
brite source thru blind 
slats less artificial but 

the familiar impact 
of entering this southeast 
division etched relative 
to neighborhood & 
planetary resources placing 
something over my eyes as i 
get up with which to see 
i look 
at your sleep falling up 
the pillow against shelf 
items away 
from a bed 

i will be in again 

with you & again 
traced 



Clamping 

out over 
lake michigan 
it's the same 

as it is 
thru here 

plenty 
of clouds too 
that clamp this 
wet air tightly 
over shorewood: 
my daughter pretends 
there are deer in the 
diningroom as my arms 
rest on a sticky maple 
table holding an issue 
of a magazine wherein 
my poem is placed,an 

indication that deer 
run thru my openings 

or that leuiguage has 

not given up the hunt or 

that heat is oppressive 
melting ideas into molds to be 
recognized as such . 



i open a window & let weighted 
air in or out; i do not know 
which will help . 



Yet 



i wanted to walk 

up from a beach 

or it could be 

a wooded spot 

into the back room 

first & then on to 

the small kitchen: 

i would find bread 

there on a pewter 

tray obviously 

left by that 

person but i 

could have some as tho 
intended , 

in fact it might have 

been or as 

the phone 

rang messages would be 

politely observed . - 

yet filling 

is the gentle mixture 

of tobacco exotic & native 

in an algerian briar on my 

front porch after a rain 

has quieted the grass : 

returning with my daughter 

who joins her in the garden 

i open the mailbox even tho 

it has been a holiday & my 

celebration is emptying 

this pipe onto a 

sidewalk kicking 

ashes with worn running shoes on 



Or 4 Li- M^^D Eottj:6(u 





"V-v " -V 







^•^>" ^N^ 

^ A^^ 














A 
















■^ 



v^ .>l:„1'». -^ 



'%/" .':#r 



o ^ 



-\ ^^ 






A^ 



v^- 






.o^\- 









.aaf^ ^^«> 



o 



"-0 






• A*' 






.,^ 



^ °o 



0' ^0"^ 






c" ** 



.<^^ 









O '* 









-f ^ ,,;-< 



0^^' .* 







■^^ <^' oV"^§Wl^'- '-^^ ^^ 



^%' X 



' ^<^ 



>■ 



%^ 



.0 



O N ' 



<^> 








» « 






,,^^-\%^ 


if 


v3 'o 


> * 




Deacidifled using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
*. Treatment Date: 

UHBbqkkeeper 

PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES. LP. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 












'>^ ^l^^l^^'-^o '" ' ' V .^^% '^^^ 





















\ 







;* <tN^ 




























'^-C'^ 



HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 

€UAN 90 
W N. MANCHESTER, 
^ INDIANA 46962 











-?*-. 



<'y' , .0 "«» 



v^ • • • A^ %*. * * * * 




